The Marquis’s Misstep by Kathy L. Wheeler
Twenty-Nine
B
rock stepped out the front door of his townhome into another deluge that refused to abate. It had taken herculean power to see Ginny up the steps of Maudsley House the night before. Not that he hadn’t hung about another couple of hours in a silent, watchful vigil. He couldn’t help thinking that, while Ginny was softening toward him, she still held back. She hadn’t railed at him once since their return to London. In point of fact, she hadn’t said much to anyone at all in her subdued state. After that kiss in the morning room, and her heartfelt thanks, she’d melted away from him, leaving him hungry and wanting.
Perhaps exhaustion was playing havoc with his sensibilities. He’d gone soft in the head.
Their time in the country had largely been spent with quiet evenings talking of inconsequential topics. Not a word of Harlowe. Kimpton didn’t want his wife upset. Besides, they still hadn’t a clue as to the man’s whereabouts. The trail had gone cold since Colchester. It was disconcerting to say the least.
The service for laying Lady Harlowe to rest had been short. And as Lorelei had intimated, the local rector had sniffed his outrage, then his disdain at having not only women attending, but children.
“’Tis unheard of, my lords! Children at a… a burial.” The man flitted about like a trapped bird.
Kimpton had stood his ground, managing not to give their reasons to the overbearing fool.
All in all, the jaunt to Kent had taken less than four days, with most of those spent traveling.
Once he’d returned home, he sent Punkle in his place to watch after Ginny. Discreetly, of course. Brock had errands to run that had been left for much too long. He paused, concentrating past the sounds of the heavy rain. Not a single word of the odd Romanian mantra reached through. He couldn’t decide if he was relieved or disturbed. But the feeling he was running short of time refused to subside, leaving him in a cold sweat.
He bounded up into his rarely used landau and tapped the ceiling. First stop: Parliament. He had an expensive request to make. He pulled out his watch fob. There was just enough time. A couple of stops along Bond Street would follow.
He had every intention of meeting Ginny tonight at whatever soiree, rout or musicale her mother saw fit in dragging her to. There were several of note to choose from, requiring a stop at the Kimptons’. He doubted they would be attending functions anytime soon due to Corinne’s sorrowful passing.
Brock jumped out of his carriage and snapped open his umbrella. The current session was still underway. Meeting with his grace, the Archbishop, would likely take an act of Parliament. At the least, the rest of the day.
